Chapter 2
CHAPTER 2
C atherine awoke, her senses returning to her one by one, smell, blurred vision, and feeling wet grass beneath her. She looked down and found herself lying on the damp ground, nestled amidst the embrace of foggy woods. The world around her was obscured by mist, a hazy curtain that seemed to veil anything near her. As her mind grappled with the fog of disorientation, Catherine struggled to rise. The cold seeped through her bones, and her limbs felt stiff and unyielding. She shivered, the chill a stark reminder of the unfamiliarity of this place, and of the events that had led her to this disconcerting moment, whatever they were, she thought.
Catherine's voice trembled as she whispered into the thick air, "What? Where am I? Professor Jameson? Hello?"
The silence that answered her was profound, a stark contrast to the lively interactions she had experienced before.
The cottage had vanished leaving behind only memories of having been there just before she blacked out and so many questions that she didn’t know what to ask first. Catherine saw a muddy road in the distance. Apprehensively, she moved toward it, each step wet and sloshy, the sound echoing through the fog-drenched landscape. All she could make out were the road and the occasional tracks in the mud that looked like those left by wagon wheels.
"Where's the campus?" Catherine's words fell from her lips, a sentiment of confusion and disbelief that resonated within the depths of the mist. Her voice grew louder as she ventured further, shouting her words into the near unknown. "Hello! Anyone there?" The words seemed to be absorbed by the very essence of the Scottish highlands, which she was fairly certain she was still in, but where exactly in the highlands she was, she wasn’t sure.
Moss covered gray boulders emerged like silent sentinels, remnants of a world untouched by time. She hugged her arms because the air was laden with a damp coldness that clung to her skin, a reminder that she couldn’t be out here after nightfall or she could succumb to hypothermia. It got pretty cold at night this time of year in Scotland. Catherine's senses sharpened as the distant sound of hoofbeats reached her ears. She turned, her gaze directed down the road in the opposite direction, a flutter of anticipation igniting within her chest. Emerging from the mist was a pack of men, a company of riders on horseback that seemed to materialize from the fog.
As the horsemen drew nearer, Catherine's thoughts raced, her instinct urging her to move aside to make way for their approach or to hide, unsure if they would help her or hurt her. She stepped onto the side of the road, but not out of view, her heart echoing the rhythm of the hoofbeats. Her eyes fixed on the approaching figures, a mixture of apprehension and curiosity intertwining in her gaze.
In that fleeting moment, as the riders neared, Catherine continued to debate herself. Should she wait for them? Who were they? Should she seek refuge, concealing herself in the fog? Her mind wavered between the choices. As the horsemen drew even closer, Catherine's attention shifted from her internal struggle to the scene unfolding before her. There was something unusual about these men. Their figures conjured images of Scottish legends and tales whispered through the generations, that she had studied in school. Strange, but not unprecedented, as she had gone to festivals and seen many people dressed in traditional clothing.
Closer and closer, their features slowly becoming clearer through the mist. And yet there was something different about these men. She felt within her bones that something was simply not right about them, but what?
As they grew closer and Catherine could see their attire, it was as though she was looking into the past. Their tartan kilts adorned in shades of blue and green, they were the colors of a clan, but she had no idea which one.
Drawing to a halt, the men's curious gazes fell upon Catherine. Their conversation flowed in the melodious cadence of Scottish Gaelic—a language that felt both foreign and hauntingly familiar to her ears. She knew it from her studies, but by no means was she fluent and though she’d been in Scotland for some time now, she hadn’t heard it spoken often. These day, most Scotsmen and women spoke more modern English.
One of the men dismounted his horse, and he approached her with an air of authority. He stood beside her, his fascinated gaze studying her. He was a massive man, broad shouldered, wide even, but he was silent as he took her in.
The air around Catherine felt charged with electricity. As if she reached out it would spark from the static connection. Breaking the silence, she summoned her courage. "Hey, um, I think I’m lost. Where on campus am I?" the midwestern American accent she had was a stark contrast to the Gaelic accents these men shared.
The man's eyes met hers, a flicker of comprehension mingling with his curiosity. He exchanged a glance with his companions, the unspoken exchange revealing their collective intrigue at their encounter.
"I am Eamon MacDonald, and you are in Scotland," he introduced himself. He was tall with short, light blond hair and piercing green eyes, he embodied the very essence of a rugged Highlander.
"I’m Catherine, and I realize I’m in Scotland, but where’s the college?" she responded.
One of the men on horseback, a voice as rich and textured as the landscapes they traversed, interjected. "Aye, the lass has a strange accent, like the others."
Eamon's nod conveyed his agreement. With an air of camaraderie, he acknowledged the observation. "Aye."
She puzzled over their meaning—had they truly never heard an American accent before? The thought left her intrigued and bemused. How was that even possible in this day and age?
Her attention shifted to the man beside her, Eamon MacDonald. His rugged handsomeness was undeniable, a sight that drew her gaze and ignited a spark of recognition within her. It was his eyes that held her captive—green as the rolling hills, with an intensity that spoke of hidden depths that she had a startling craving to explore.
The tunics, the kilts, the leather belts adorned with swords and daggers painted a picture of a bygone era. She pondered their purpose in this attire, the significance of it as they rode together. Were they re-enacting some sort of event? Was the college hosting something like that and she hadn’t heard about it?
"Are you all coming from like, a festival or something?" she asked.
"No, no festivities, lass. We are on patrol," Eamon said.
And as her gaze lingered upon Eamon's rugged features—the line of his jaw, the curve of his lips—she recognized just how authentic he was. If she didn’t know any better, she’d think she’d conjured him and the men with him right out of one of her history books.
His words finally registered. He’d said he was on patrol, but patrol for what? And she still didn’t know where on campus she was. “Sorry, but I don’t know how I got here, or where here actually is. And please, don’t say Scotland, I know that. I mean where exactly am I?” “You are on the isle of Islay," he declared, his voice dipped into the rich hues of the Scottish brogue, stronger than any she’d heard before.
Catherine's brow furrowed in confusion, her voice carrying her bewilderment. "What?" she uttered, her tone a mix of incredulity and disbelief, the question a reflection of her disoriented state. “How did I get here from Edinburgh?”
Eamon's eyes held an understanding that reached beyond words, and he seemed almost sad for her. "Tis a lot to comprehend, lass." He spoke gently, his words a lifeline in the swirling sea of uncertainty that was Catherine’s mind. "Perhaps you should come with us. There are others who will be better equipped to explain."
"Where?" Catherine's inquiry hung in the air, as she twisted her fingers in anxiety. Still she was curious and was considering going with them. Her gaze shifted between the men, the rugged figures on horseback who seemed both familiar and foreign. She didn’t feel unsafe with them, which considering their sizes, was surprising.
"We will take you back with us to Fort Donald." Eamon's words carried a warmth of assurance. "We’ll get you a hot drink, and you can warm yourself by the fire," he added, his tone laced with kindness.
Should she go with these men? she wondered as she met his gaze. Could she trust them?
The notion of wandering the woods alone into the depths of night seemed a daunting prospect, a path fraught with uncertainties. Eamon's offer held the allure of companionship, warmth, and perhaps answers to the riddles that clouded her perception.
“There are other women who came before you that can better answer your questions,” he added, obviously sensing her hesitation. What could he mean? Women that came before her? That was an odd thing to say. "What do you mean came before me?" Catherine's asked, not giving her answer until she clarified what was going on.
The men exchanged glances, and it was as though a silent conversation laden with unspoken meanings was taking place between them. Eamon's reticence held a weight that seemed to echo among the men, a knowledge they carried like a shield.
“I promise, you will be well if you choose to come with us, lass, we mean you no harm and offer Clan Donald’s hospitality to you,” he said, urging her to say yes.
He’d been nothing but polite and she didn’t feel unsecure with them, so she gave him a nod of acceptance. “All right, I’ll come with you.”
With a gesture as gallant as a knight of old, Eamon mounted his steed, extending his hand to her. "Come, lass," he urged, his gaze unwavering as it bore into hers, offering both reassurance and an invitation as he offered to bring her up onto the horse with him.
With her heart pounding in fear, she weighed her options—trying to navigate the isle of Islay on her own, or a leap of faith into the arms of an enigmatic, attractive, stranger.